


The Dead Robin

by Violet_Witch



Series: Broken Bird's Club [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Canon Temporary Character Death, Character Study, Classical References, Gen, Hypocrisy, Look guys, and this is his story, but not an attempt, excessive use of dramatic irony, like a lot of them, my boy's been thru hell, tw: suicidal thoughts and actions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 12:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19767841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violet_Witch/pseuds/Violet_Witch
Summary: Jason has long since accepted that he’s going down in history as the dead Robin.Personally, he thinks it’s bullshit considering two other Robin’s died on the job—even if Blondie was just faking it—so it’s hardly fair to label himthedead Robin, even if he was the one who made it cool by biting the dust first.… Jason has just been informed that describing his untimely death as ‘cool’ is a bad example to set for children so to rectify this: Don’t die kids. It wasn’t fun, you probably won’t come back from it, and if you do manage a spectacular resurrection, there’s at least a 63% chance that it’ll be as aThe Walking Dead-esque zombie instead of an anti hero with cool gun skills.~~~Or Jason’s life story, told in broad strokes to better convey his mental state at each stage of his life, death, rebirth, and beyond.





	The Dead Robin

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the events are based loosely on the New 52 timeline, but I played kind of fast and loose with canon for the purposes of cohesive storytelling, my preferences, and time. In other words: none of the scenes will quite line up with canon, but the overall story is canon compliant.
> 
> (With the exception of his death scene in which dialogue is ripped straight from the Under the Red Hood animated movie and is not my own.)
> 
> Also, there’s a good deal of subjective Bruce hate that I don’t entirely agree with, but Jason wholeheartedly believes it so. Ya know. Unreliable narrator I guess.
> 
> The ‘chapter’ titles are all books that I chose based on vague feelings, a discerning ouija board, and a very long game of darts, but the intent was to help put you in the right mindset for a section or to help imply a deeper meaning. Let me know if you have better suggestions for what a certain chapter should be ‘titled’ (no promises) or if I cited something incorrectly.
> 
> Finally there’s a few brief mentions of suicidal thoughts so please read responsibly!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the DC characters and am not profiting from this work.

Jason has long since accepted that he’s going down in history as the dead Robin.

Personally, he thinks it’s bullshit considering two other Robin’s died on the job—even if Blondie was just faking it—so it’s hardly fair to label him _the_ dead Robin, even if he was the one who made it cool by biting the dust first. 

… Jason has just been informed that describing his untimely death as ‘cool’ is a bad example to set for children so to rectify this: Don’t die kids. It wasn’t fun, you probably won’t come back from it, and if you do manage a spectacular resurrection, there’s at least a 63% chance that it’ll be as a _The Walking Dead_ -esque zombie instead of an anti hero with cool gun skills.

Got it? Good.

Overall, it just seems unfair that Jason is going to be remembered for his greatest mistake. Besides, isn’t it kind of burying the lead? Wouldn’t it be more useful to describe him as the psychotic Robin who came back and tried to kill everyone?

Brutal, but accurate.

And sure, he mellowed out and after a brief (crippling and over the span of several months, arguably years) depressive episode, he’s back to being more or less on the side of the angels. Even if that refers to the angels of old who carried flaming swords and were always down for some divine smiting.

That might make him scum of the Earth in Bruce’s eyes, but at least he’s self aware now. Still. It’s… not how he imagined his life going.

**1\. Lord of the Flies - William Golding, 1954**

When Jason was a kid, his world was as big as South Gotham.

Intellectually, he knew there must be a beyond. This couldn’t possibly be all there was. If he boosted a car and started driving East, he’d eventually reach the ocean.

But that logic has one fatal flaw. He doesn’t have a clue what the ocean would look like. It’s hard to fantasize about a bigger, brighter world when you don’t even know what you’re picturing.

One of Jason’s older friends once told him that the ocean was the same color as Jason’s eyes, but Jason calls bullshit because Tommy hasn’t ever left Gotham. Just like the rest of them. And anyway, the water in the harbor is dirt brown on a good day, and neon green on a bad day, so what does Tommy know?

It wasn’t like Jason could ask his ma about it. For one thing, she probably didn’t know. For another, she wouldn’t have heard him.

She didn’t hear much those days. Not through the drugs. But then, that was the point of them, wasn’t it?

Regardless, Jason couldn’t leave, so he had no other choice but to survive.

That, at least, came naturally to Jason. He was small, so he could fit in the tight spaces grownups couldn’t and he had good enough instincts to know when he needed to do just that. He was smart like the other kids could only dream of, and he was very, very good at hurting people.

He didn’t want to, but the downside to being small was that he was an easy target. It was fight of flight, and sometimes Jason didn’t even get to make that choice. So he learned how to hold his own. It was rough and it was dirty and he took to it like a fish to water. 

Everything made more sense in a brawl. Sure, it was a chaotic mess where he couldn’t stop moving on threat of a knife to his heart, but every time he landed a good hit, a thrill shot up Jason’s spine.

It was his first taste of power, even if he lost that fight and ended up even more bloody and bruised than he would have been if he’d just cooperated.

Jason was fighting from the moment he was born. Fighting the drugs on behalf of his mother, fighting his father for being a deadbeat asshole, fighting the entire goddamn world for abandoning the people of Gotham. 

He was fighting, and he was losing. At least now they were fights he could win, even if he only managed that 30% of the time.

Willis and Catherine exited Jason’s life without fanfare. 

In fact, when Willis was arrested and died in prison, Jason couldn’t even muster a look of surprise and his acting hadn’t improved by the time Catherine overdosed and left Jason truly alone for the first time. (But not the last.)

It’s all at once strange for them to be physically gone, and more normal than talking to Catherine’s unconscious body. They were never really there in the ways that mattered, so he supposes, in a way, he was always alone. Now it just comes along with a brand new shiny title: _orphan._

If he could afford a therapist, (ha!) they’d probably say something about how Jason’s increase in reckless behavior was a response to his grief. In response, Jason would kindly point out that it was a response to the fact that he was a _child_ taking care of _himself_ while _starving_ on the streets.

Jason wouldn’t be very good at therapy.

And he wouldn’t call it ‘reckless’ so much as ‘necessary’. Afterall, their deaths didn’t change his plans: survive, wait for the right moment, _see the goddamn ocean._

It’s simple, it’s to the point, it’s all Jason’s got to get him through the hunger pangs.

So he rolls up his sleeves and gets started. 

He loses his gag reflex and learns how to put his pretty face to good use. He figures out how to pick pockets and steal watches. He talks to the other kids, learns which street corners to avoid at all costs, and which ones are ripe with pigeons, primed for the plucking. (That’s what Tommy used to call rich folks. Pigeons. Brainless, and more common the harder you look.)

He also finds he has a particular talent for making people angry.

He’s not sure if it’s the mere fact that he’s a nine year old with the balls to tell them how stupid they really are, or that they know he’s right. Either way, he can’t argue cause and effect.

Cause: Jason opens his mouth.

Effect: Someone starts swinging.

What can he say? People fight sloppy when they’re angry. They let their guard down and if they ever had training, they forget it. An angry fighter is a losing fighter. 

It’s certainly easier than charming them anyway. He’s not a sweet talker by nature. He prefers… more direct methods.

But that’s all stuff that can be said about most of the Crime Alley brats who live past eight without allying themselves with a gang.

What makes Jason different is that he still has hope. 

It’s a tiny flame, closely and jealously guarded, but he’s never let it go out. Not when his parents died, not when he was starving with no food in sight, and not after any of the times he’s been left for dead in an alley.

Things might look pretty bad, but one day Jason’s going to make it out. He refuses to be a background character to someone else's story. He doesn’t want to be the villain, or the victim either. He’s gonna be a big damn hero, and not even Batman could stop him.

**2\. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens, 1861**

He wouldn’t go as far as to say it was his _plan_ for Batman to find him while he’s stealing the hubcaps from the Batmobile, but he would like to point out that a couple hundred dollar score turned into a bed to sleep in and three hot meals a day pretty quickly, even if Bruce tried to send him to a boys home first. 

(An endeavour doomed to failure. Honestly, Jason’s disappointed that Bruce was even surprised by Ma Gunn being an undercover sadist who specialized in pre adolescent boys.)

The shift from _Lord of the Flies_ to _Annie_ makes Jason’s head hurt, but like with every other curve ball life has thrown him, Jason adapts.

And if he just so happens to adapt by convincing Bruce to let him suit up and go hit some gangbangers, well that’s only to be expected.

**3\. The Little Prince - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, 1943**

Dick Grayson, Jason decides upon meeting him, is aptly named.

In fact, Jason hasn’t heard a name so accurate since the first time he read _Great Expectations_ when Charles introduced him to Estella. (He always refers to authors by their first names. His teachers say it’s disrespectful, but most of the authors Jason reads are long dead anyway, so why should he care about their feelings?)

“You can’t just let this kid be Robin!” 

For two crime fighters who value stealth so highly, neither vigilante is particularly good at lowering their voice. Or it could just be that Jason has his ear pressed against the door of Bruce’s study in order to listen in.

“It’s been decided Dick.”

“By who? By you? Because last time I checked, Robin was _mine_.” 

_Then why did he leave?_ Jason thinks hotly.

“ _Dick._ ” Jason hasn’t been around long enough to have any idea what that tone of voice is, but it’s definitely not the monotone he’s used to getting from Bruce.

“I was getting justice for my parents’ murder. I had the athletic background for it too. What has this kid got? A plucky attitude?”

No one’s ever called Jason _plucky_ before. He kinda likes it.

“Your situation was different, yes, but Jason has practically raised himself in the streets. I’ve seen him in a fight and I can safely say training him won’t be a problem. Besides, I couldn’t stop him if I tried.” The words make an unfamiliar something swell in Jason’s chest.

Dick makes a frustrated sound that might actually be a growl and there’s the sound of leather squeaking as he drops into the chair across from Bruce. Jason knows what that chair sounds like because it’s the one he sat in while Bruce signed the adoption papers.

The silence begins to stretch so long Jason wonders if they’re both taking a nap. When Dick finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before and oddly shakey. “A year, Bruce. Not even that. I’ve been gone less than a year and you’re already replacing me. Like it meant nothing.”

“ _Son_ ,” Jason’s breath catches and he’s not sure why, “it’s not like that.”

Dick scoffs. “Yeah, sure. I left Alfie my knew contact information. You probably already have it you fucking stalker, but Alfie deserved better than that.”

Then there’s the sound of wood scuffing on wood as he stands up, and Jason bolts. He doesn’t quite make it, so he steadies his breathing and turns around to make it look like he was just walking towards the study.

Dick is out the next second, slamming the door behind him. He’s muttering darkly and dragging a hand through his hair (hair that’s the same color as Jason’s) when he spots Jason and freezes.

For a long moment Jason thinks he might actually get hit, but then Dick sighs. “Look kid, I know what you’re going through—hell I _was_ you—so just don’t do anything stupid or rash, alright? And whatever you do, don’t die.”

Jason’s lips quirk up at the corners. “If a golden boy like you managed not to, I think I’ll be fine.”

Dick snorts and brushes past him on the way out. Jason doesn’t see him again out of costume for almost a full year.

Which is fine by him. Keeping the original around when you’ve got the new and improved model would only lead to infighting, and he’s got enough on his plate without staking a claim on what’s clearly his by scavenger’s rights.

Namely, he’s a little busy trying and failing to adapt to life as an aristocrat’s son. He wants to just cast away all the lessons that have been beaten into him after a lifetime in Crime Alley, but he _can’t._ The filth of that awful _place_ isn’t just stuck to him, it’s _in_ him. 

It’s in the itching feeling that has his head perpetually on the swivel, checking his six so often, he nearly knocks over a vase that’s probably expensive enough to buy him a trip to the _moon._

It’s in the way he practically licks his plate clean after every meal and always asks for thirds, even when he’s not hungry. Maybe even more so in the strange looks Bruce gives him for it.

It’s in the way his callused hands, now immaculately clean but still covered in more scars than any ten year old’s should be, stick out in stark contrast to the tastefully curated art pieces and dust free chandeliers of the house that’s too big for just three people.

It’s quite simple really, he doesn’t belong here. Wayne Manor is a dream that could shatter at any moment.

So Jason smiles at Bruce and Alfie like a good little orphan while he smuggles supplies from the cave and food from the kitchen. Not enough that they would notice, but plenty to keep him alive for days on the streets.

He keeps these stolen treasures in a rucksack by the window of his room, stuffed behind the air vent so Alfie won’t find it when he’s cleaning. Jason’s really starting to like the old butler, and he doesn’t want to screw up their relationship by not looking grateful.

Most of the time he can convince himself it’s an unnecessary precaution anyway. Bruce is the fucking Batman, if he can’t be trusted, who can? And Alfred has never shown Jason anything but kindness. He’s scared to even think it, but if he let them, they could be family.

Not like Catherine and Willis were, but _real_ family. The kind that would go to the ends of the Earth for you, knowing you’d do the same in return. The kind of family that would love you no matter who you are or what you do. Unconditional.

The longer he stays, the more he starts to believe in that.

It’s hard not to when Alfred is gently waving him into the kitchen and demonstrating how to crack eggs with just the right amount of force not to get shell in the bowl. Harder still when Bruce indulges him in a game of rooftop tag, albeit with stoic seriousness that screams _‘this is totally training for your Robin duties and not at all because I enjoy picking you up when I finally catch you’_.

He’s not going to go calling Bruce dad or anything, (Even though he technically could. The papers are all signed. Jason Todd, is now legally Jason Todd-Wayne, but he knows enough to know the letter of the law isn’t what makes a family—well, _family._ ) but he can feel something shifting within himself.

It feels like a breath of fresh air, or a band around his chest loosening. It feels like he might just be going tame. 

Bruce, Alfie, and him… hardly a conventional family by any means. Too small, too broken, but they love each other. At least—they’re starting too. Even if Jason’s never gonna get over the fact that Bruce doesn’t know how much a banana costs.

**4\. Hamlet - William Shakespeare, 1609**

Jason loves reading.

It’s not something people expect from the violent Robin. In fact, strangers tend to peg him as a jock type. Smart, maybe, but still someone who only goes to school to socialize.

They couldn’t be more wrong.

Sure, the kids at Gotham City Academy are nice. Jason even likes a few of them. And yeah, he’d be good at sports if he had time for them. But he’s also the kid who does every extra credit assignment even though he already has a perfect 4.0.

There’s just _so much_ to learn. Math, science, history… Jason’s behind on all of it, but it’s an honor and a privilege to learn them now.

Crime Alley brats don’t really go to school. They’re born to survive, and not a whole lot else. That means taking odd jobs as soon as you can string enough words together, not going to school to get an education.

They learn from experience and pain.

With that in mind, it shouldn’t be a surprise that Jason throws himself into his studies. On slow nights, he even asks Bruce to end patrol early sometimes so he can finish his homework or study for a test.

He loves it all, but by far his favorite thing about school is reading.

They start him out with the beginner stuff at school and at first it bores Jason to death. He might only be eleven on the outside, but he’s seen far too much shit to happily sit and listen to fun little stories where everything’s easy and nobody gets hurt.

He’s too far gone for that.

He vastly prefers Alfred’s method. Alfred, as Jason learns while they’re cooking zuppe di pesce, used to be a stage actor. He tells Jason with a fond smile how he even played Hamlet. Naturally, Jason’s curious, so that night Alfred read the whole play to him, putting on voices and gesticulating wildly.

Jason oohed and ahhed, laughing and gasping as the play called for it. There was something so painfully real about the Bard’s work that Jason couldn’t quantify. It was the first time he really loved literature.

Storytime (Jason loathed calling it that. The name felt too juvenile for his preteen ego.) became a nightly occurrence. Bruce didn’t share Jason and Alfred’s love of literature and Earl Gray tea, but he would sit with them anyway.

It was a family thing. Their first family thing, actually. Although, as the years progressed, Alfred would wrangle them into a few other traditions, but storytime remained Jason’s favorite.

They worked their way through Shakespeare’s (The one exception to Jason’s first name rule, ‘cause come on, Shakespeare is _so_ much more interesting than William.) complete works and then moved onto classics. By then, Jason’s reading fluency was improving by leaps and bounds, so instead of simply reading the work _to_ him, Alfred sat beside him and they began _Pride and Prejudice_ together.

The classics had a sort of bleak optimism that he loved.

There weren’t happy endings. Each story painted a picture of humanity as flawed and inherently broken. Greed, selfishness, hubris… all follies of man, but none insurmountable.

Charles, Jane, Virginia, Mark… they all understood something that Jason found rather lacking in his new environment. Suffering doesn’t end. There isn’t a rainbow to hop over, or a princess to kiss, or a horse waiting for you to ride into the sunset. What you were born with is what you have to work with.

Happy endings aren’t real, because there isn’t an end. As much as Jason would love to freeze himself in those quiet moments with Alfred by the fire while Bruce did paperwork nearby, that’s not how real life works. Jason might be happy now, but it’s not ‘happily ever after’. His story isn’t over. It’s going to keep going, and the next page might not be as happy as this one.

Happy endings aren’t real, because nothing ends and life is rarely happy.

Until everything ends. But death doesn’t make you happy, it makes you dead. Some people believe in an afterlife, and Jason understands that that’s their right, but he doesn’t. He believes that this life is all he’s got, and he has to make it count.

But that’s exactly where the optimism comes in. The classics celebrate what you can do with the life you’ve been given. From first love (even if it’s doomed) to simple pleasures (even though they’re small).

So sure, Jason doesn’t believe in happy endings. Sue him for being cynical after watching his mother and so many of his friends die.

But that’s okay because, for now, he’s got his happy middle.

**5\. Catch-22 - Joseph Heller, 1961**

“Why do you stay here?” Jason’s newest classmate asks bluntly.

“Well I legally have to. Compulsory education laws and all that,” Jason replies with a smirk.

New girl rolls her eyes. “No, I mean in _Gotham._ This place is kind of a dump.”

Jason takes a deep breath to refrain from the knee jerk reaction to punch her for dissing his city and instead focuses on what she’s really asking, beneath all the blunt rudeness.

He thinks of the ocean he knows more about now, but still hasn’t seen in person, and knows what she means. It’s not a totally radical question from her point of view. She just transferred from Metropolis. She doesn’t have Gotham in her veins like the rest of them do. She doesn’t know what it’s like to call the depths of this ‘dump’ _home._

He could tell her that, but she wouldn’t understand. And even if she could, there are other reasons he can’t explain himself to her.

He can’t exactly tell her about how the lights of the city sprawl beneath him in a patchwork of life as he flies over them, or about how the wind tousles his hair when he swings between buildings. He can’t tell her about how a random street girl once took a hit for him before Bruce ever come along, or how he can feel the hum of the city in his bones with every waking moment.

Nor can he tell her about how he hits drug dealers extra hard because he still remembers his mother. That he hasn’t cried since he was eight because crying meant weakness and weakness meant a target on your back. That no matter how hard Bruce trains him, his fighting style will always look dirty like the streets he grew up in.

And even if he could, he still probably wouldn’t be able to make her understand that he _can’t_ leave because Gotham _made_ him this way and now there isn’t any other place that would take him.

So instead he smiles, and hopes he can explain it all with something simpler. “Where else would I go?”

**6\. Call of the Wild - Jack London, 1903**

Finding out his mother is alive was a bit of a shock to Jason’s system considering he was the one who found her dead body. He supposes he’s seen stranger things, but resurrection seems like a bit much.

He’s currently stuck on monitor duty because apparently he’s just too good at beating people up, so he finds out before Bruce.

Oh god. Bruce. What if he has to go back to living with Catherine now that they know she’s alive? Addiction aside, she’s his _mother_. 

But that’s also precisely why he _has_ to see her again. As much as he wants to just wash his hands of her, he can’t. He has to know why she never came back.

So he gets on a plane.

Now that he’s Bruce Wayne’s son, it would have been a matter of a few words to see the ocean anytime he wanted, but he’d kept putting it off. At first because he didn’t trust Bruce, but then it was because just asking Bruce to fly him out seemed like cheating.

He had one piece of hope to keep him going in Crime Alley, one dream he refused to let them stomp out. He’d promised himself, when he accomplished it, it’d be of his own power.

He supposes this is going to have to count because now he’s got a window seat on a transatlantic flight.

“First time flying?” The lady sitting next to Jason is probably around Bruce’s age and seems kind enough, not that that means much when Jason deals with assassins on a bimonthly basis.

But Alfred has spent the last few years drilling manners into his head, so Jason smiles at her and says, “Not exactly. But it is my first time crossing the ocean.”

“Ah,” she nods sagely, “that can be scary.”

Jason doesn't have the time, energy, or crayons to explain to her that he’s less scared of crashing into the water and more scared of what he’s going to find on the other side of it.

He smiles tightly. “Yeah.”

She leaves him alone for the take off and the start of the flight, but an hour in Jason can’t help himself. He opens the window.

It’s… breathtaking.

Blue stretches in every direction, seemingly going on forever. He can see the patterns of the waves on the surface of the water and the shine from the sun that’s high in the sky.

“It’s quite a view, isn’t it?” The woman’s quiet voices startles Jason slightly.

“I… yeah. It is.”

“My mom lives on the beach, and she always used to tell me, as long as you can see the water, you’re safe. It was just a silly way to keep me from wandering too far, but when I look at it now… ”

“You wonder if she meant something more?”

The woman shrugs. “Kind of. We came from the ocean, and one day we’ll probably return to it. There’s certainly something poetic about that.”

Jason laughs softly. “Yeah. Poetic.”

The woman makes a soft humming noise and doesn’t continue the conversation. In a few minutes, she’s asleep.

Jason’s still staring out the window, caught on one incessant thought.

_It really is the same color as my eyes._

**7\. The Catcher in The Rye - J. D. Salinger, 1951**

Dying is the easy part. (Which, incidentally, could be the tagline of Jason’s life.)

The hard part is feeling the crack of the crowbar against his ribs and thinking, _any minute now. Bruce will be here any minute._ The hard part is choking on blood and biting off his own tongue in an effort not to scream. The hard part is listening to the Joker’s taunts as he beats him.

 _Crack._ “Ooh, that looked like it hurt.” _Crack._ “That looks like it hurt a lot more.” Joker’s laugh rings through the warehouse, taking on an almost wavy quality as Jason fades in and out of consciousness. 

_Bruce will be here soon. He’s going to save me, just like always._

“So,” The Joker smiles down at him, bouncing the crowbar up and down on his hand, “Let’s try to clear this up, okay Pumpkin? What hurts more? A?” He brings the crowbar down hard across Jason’s ribs. “Or B?” Another blow. “Forehand?” Again. “Or backhand.” _Crack._

The tears streaming down Jason’s face mingle with his blood, but he still murmurs until the Joker leans in and orders, “A little louder, lambchop. I think you may have a collapsed lung, that always impedes the oratory.”

Jason spits in his face.

It’s satisfying to watch the Joker recoil. “Now that was rude,” he reprimands, pulling a handkerchief from his sickening purple suit and using it to wipe Jason’s blood stained spit off his face. “The first Boy Blunder had some manners.”

Jason rolls over as best he can, and smirks at him. It’ll be a great story to tell Donna and the others. He’ll exaggerate it a little. Paint himself as the hero instead of the victim. Who knows? Maybe after a few retellings, he might even add in a dragon. Stories are always better with a dragon.

The Joker cocks his head consideringly. “I suppose I’m going to have to teach you a lesson so you can better follow in his footsteps.” A moment of thought. “Nah, I’m just gonna keep beating you with this crowbar.”

The sound of Joker’s laugh and metal thudding on flesh floods Jason’s senses. The sharp tang of blood and iron clogs his nose. The pain has surpassed individual injuries to the point where he barely feels the crowbar landing hit after hit onto his already bloody and broken body. 

“Okay kiddo, I gotta go, it’s been fun though right?” the Joker asks pleasantly, pulling on a thick fur coat. Jason can’t find it in himself to make another show of defiance. “Well, maybe a smidge more fun for me than you. I’m just guessing since you’re being awful quiet.”

“Anyway, be a good boy, finish your homework and be in bed by nine. And hey,” The fire in Jason dances even higher. He’s actually leaving, this is Jason’s _chance._ “tell the big man, I said hello.”

… Bruce? Joker of all people would surely leave a stronger message than that right? Whatever. He and Bruce can figure it out together once he’s out of here.

He manages to crawl and drag himself to the door, but it’s locked. Okay, no worries. Bruce will just break the lock when he gets here, and Jason will try not to bleed out until then. He’ll be…

Tick, tick, tick, tick… 

Jason turns around, eyes scouring the room until—a bomb. Nine seconds.

Bruce isn’t going to make it.

Seven seconds.

He’s going to die here.

Four seconds.

He’s going to die alone.

Two seconds.

He never even got to tell Bruce and Alfred he—

**8\. Inferno - Dante Alighieri, 1308**

The thing they don’t tell you about being dead, is that it really fucks you up. Even when Jason’s eyes open and lungs that should have been little more than shrivelled and rotting pieces of flesh draw breath again, it’s not living.

All he can do is operate on instinct as he pounds and scrapes his way through the coffin, ignoring the dirt that collapses onto him in favor of clawing his way towards freedom.

Even as his newly functional lungs burn and his hands start to bleed, Jason doesn’t let up. Not until all but one of his nails have ripped off and he’s once again breathing fresh Gotham smog.

It’s not a resurrection. It’s punishment for the hubris that let Jason think he could be happy.

**9\. Frankenstein - Marry Shelley, 1818**

He’s fifteen (Sixteen? Talia didn’t exactly give him the date.) and the world is composed completely of acid green.

He’s drowning in fire, but he’s not dying. He knows what dying feels like, and this isn’t it. 

This is so much worse. 

This is bones knitting back together and atrophied muscles regrowing in the space of seconds. This is washing out his lungs, erasing who he is, then rebooting his whole system as if he were a malfunctioning computer instead of a human being. This is the cure to everything, and a poison worse than death. This is the end and the beginning. This is the Lazarus Pit, and Jason Todd is it’s victim.

_Bruce didn’t come for me._

The realization brings on a new wave of agony. Both physical as the last of the brain damage is chased away, and mental as anger rushes through his veins, hotter than it’s ever been before.

The moment Jason surges forth from the depths of the Pit, he is reborn.

Robin is not.

 _Robin_ died in a warehouse in Europe, but _Jason,_ has been forged into a weapon by the combined efforts of a madman and a murderer.

Robin was goodness and light. Order and support.

Jason is beyond all those things now, and he’s going to make the world pay the price for it. He wanted so badly to be a hero, but like it has so many times before, the universe has taken the choice away from Jason.

Contrary to what Bruce might choose to believe about a certain son of a bitch pimp and a very high ledge, the acolyte standing closest to the Pit is Jason’s first kill. It feels good. Like scratching an itch. Simple. Easy.

He kills seven more before he comes face to face with Talia.

She looks almost as horrified as she should when faced with the homicidal monster she’s stolen from the dead. Their eyes meet and Jason freezes. Some part of him knows her. They are connected now and he hates that he can’t simply kill her as he did the others. Not yet, at least.

He wishes he had.

**10\. Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde, 1890**

Intellectually, Jason always knew the Lazarus Pit erased scarring, but there’s a huge difference between _knowing_ and feeling phantom pains for injuries that might as well never have happened.

The cut across his ribs from a mugger he took down on his third night as Robin, gone. The stab wound in his shoulder from a particularly lucky Riddler goon, gone. The bullet wound on his calf from Deathstroke of all people, gone.

The Y on his chest from the autopsy, gone.

Everything has a price, and this is his. To have his identity and his past stripped away. To know that though he has returned to the land of the living, he is not the same. This might as well be another’s body.

The Pit has marked him.

He can see it in the neon green tint of his once blue eyes. In the white streak that mars his ebony hair. The Pit stole from him all the things that connected him to Bruce and Dick.

The scars he won in hard battles fought by their sides, the passing resemblance he’d lucked upon that tied them all together. Even his youth.

The baby fat that was left in his face has vanished, replaced instead by sharp angles and stubble that he’s too young to have. His body has changed as will. Bigger than he remembers and almost bulky where he was once lean.

Talia doesn’t say it outright, but everytime he looks in the mirror he can see it clear as day. He’s not quite human anymore. His eyes glint unnaturally in the dark and his body is stronger than it should be, even with the muscle he’s gained so quickly.

The eyes and hair aren’t the only trait he now shares with the Demon. He knows, with a bone deep certainty that he’s rarely had about anything, that he’s going to look like this for a very long time.

He stops looking in the mirror.

**11\. Julius Caesar - William Shakespeare, 1599**

Jason doesn’t understand why he’s alive.

Of course, he also doesn’t know how he’s alive since the Lazurus pit is only responsible for half of that shit show, but right now he’s more concerned with why Talia thought bringing him back was a good idea. What’s the endgame? 

If it’s to make him a weapon for the League to aim and fire as they please, she’s got another thing coming. If it comes down to it, he’d rather slit his own throat than lose his freedom like that.

At least then he’d be at peace again.

But Talia hasn’t done anything to suggest that’s her intent. In fact, Jason’s being treated more like an honored, if still a little feral, guest.

Hell, he’s having breakfast with her right now. Or, he was, until she throws a dossier of photos down in front of him.

“What the hell is this supposed to be?”

“See for yourself.”

Jason shoots her a look before carefully opening the folder. The first picture is of Robin. His vision instinctively flares green until he notices that it isn’t him. Or Dick for that matter. It’s someone knew.

“Who is this.”

“He’s the son of two of Gotham’s richest, and heir to a fortune 500 company. He hit the streets as Robin eight months after your untimely death. He had no prior training and no qualifications beyond a few good grades and after school activities. His parents don’t even know what he’s getting up to at night.”

“No.” Jason slams the folder closed again. “Bruce wouldn’t do that.”

“Are you sure about that Jason? You _were_ the second Robin. What’s so surprising about a third?” Talia’s voice is level as she lounges in her chair. Reasonable and calm as she brings Jason’s world down around his ears.

“This is different and you fucking know it. Dick left. _I died._ No way would he take on another kid, let alone one so ill equipped after that. He wouldn’t replace me and he wouldn’t endanger another innocent.”

“Except _he did._ ” Talia hisses, her voice suddenly full of venom. “Take another look. There should be enough in that folder to convince you.”

Jason’s breath is starting to come more quickly and he can’t think over the dull pounding in his head. This can’t be right. No way. Bruce was his dad, surely he wouldn’t… 

Jason opens the folder.

Photo after photo of some stick of a kid in _his_ colors greets him. None showing signs of forgery. Together they paint a damning picture.

Then he reaches the bottom and his heart stops. The last picture isn’t of Robin, it’s of the _Joker._ Very much alive in his cell at Arkham. Dated just a few days ago. 

Jason stands up, his chair clattering to the ground behind him. “Why isn’t he dead. I thought he was dead.”

“Why would he be dead?” Talia asks quietly.

“Because—Because he killed me! I thought Bruce would have—” Wouldn’t he?

Talia clucks her tongue. “You know better than that. My beloved doesn’t kill. No exceptions, right? Not even for someone he claims to love.”

A bone numbing cold skitters down Jason’s spine like icy fingers. The Joker is alive. His nightmares are real, and it’s Bruce’s fault.

He finally understood the meaning of the phrase, _that backstabbing bastard._

He kills six people before the green fades.

When it’s over, he sits against a wall with his head tucked between his knees, full body sobs raking his frame. The blood on his hands is probably getting all over his face and hair, but as least now he won’t have to see that fucking white streak.

“Shh, it’s alright darling,” Talia whispers, lowering herself gracefully to her knees beside him. She doesn’t touch him and he’s grateful for it. “I’m so sorry I had to be the one to deliver that news—” _liar_ “—but you deserved to know. The question now is— _what are you going to do about it?_ ”

Jason keeps breathing until his heart rate has settled.

He thinks about quiet nights by the fire and movies they were planning on seeing together. He thinks about all the times he put his life in Bruce’s hands unquestioningly. All the times he had Bruce’s back and thought what they had was special.

He thinks about how shocked Bruce had looked the first time he called him dad. How he’d taken him out for ice cream after.

This time when the green floods in, Jason doesn’t do a single thing to try and stop it. He lets it consume him like the waters did. He lets go of those memories.

“I’m going to kill him.”

**12\. Beowulf - Unknown, 700-1000 AD**

Talia takes him to the all-caste.

Jason thinks it’s some kind of mystical bullshit until he gets his ass handed to him by the all-mother who’s a couple thousand years past her prime, and learns a little respect. 

The all-mother teaches him that there is a middle ground between Talia and Bruce’s diametrically opposed beliefs. She preaches that to give death is as intimate as to give life. It cannot be taken for granted.

Jason sees her logic and he makes it a part of himself. In some situations, killing is the only answer. Like with the Joker.

The all-caste understand that because they are warriors. They know that you can’t make it through with clean hands. Mercy has its place in war, but so does death.

So they take Jason in. They help him fill in the gaps of his training. They teach him to kill and to balance himself. They pull him back from the ledge he was standing on, but not by far.

When it’s time to leave, Jason almost misses them.

Maybe he’ll visit once the Joker’s dead.

He goes back to the League to continue his learning in a more ruthless fashion and he beings to plot. His return to Gotham has to be perfect.

But before he can begin, there’s something he has to do.

He doesn’t give himself over to the rage this time. Too high of a risk. But that doesn’t stop him from taking comfort in the weight of the knife in his hand as he holds it against his replacement’s throat.

Replacement, is _tiny_ in his grip. He can feel the bones beneath his skin—skin so pale Jason can almost see through it. He’s got the same black hair and blue eyes as Bruce. As Dick. As Jason once did. And Bruce is putting this _kid_ on the front lines to fight the worst Gotham has to offer. It’s sick. 

The Red Hood may be a criminal, but at least he has standards. It’s the first rule he’s going to set for his own criminal enterprise. No children. Batman has never expressed that level of decency. Not to a ten year old Dick Grayson, and not to Jason.

He would have thought Bruce would get tired of seeing kids die under his watch, but apparently not. The old man’s a dirty masochist and he’s going to drag all of Gotham down with him.

And even while getting the shit beat out of him, the kid still tries to appeal to Jason on Bruce’s behalf. Like a good little soldier should.

Jason puts his knife away and breaks the kid’s ankle. It’ll be enough to keep him out of the coming storm.

A big part of Jason wants to do worse, but he can’t. Not when everything about the kid feels familiar. Young and eager to impress, just like Jason was.

He can’t kill the kid for getting duped. This is between him, and the big man.

**13\. Moby Dick - Herman Melville, 1851**

It’s not even hard.

Years of trying to be good, of fighting every instinct just so he could obey Bruce’s _rules,_ and all it takes is eight heads in a duffle bag for Jason to control half of Gotham’s underworld. Two hours of dirty work, and he’s done more for this city as Red Hood than he ever did as Robin and brought himself that much closer to killing the Joker. It’d be funny if it weren’t so damn depressing.

But it’s also true. In all the time Jason was Robin, he may have saved lives, but crime rates only went up.

Now the drug trade is down, and dealers are no longer allowed to sell to children. The working girls are being protected. Weapons shipments in and out are being more carefully monitored and distributed so that petty criminals can’t just get their hands on them to use all over the place.

Crime is _dropping,_ and it’s all thanks to Jason.

And if the price of that is Jason’s name in red at the top of Bruce’s most wanted list, then fine. If Bruce wants to make him the villain, he’ll be the fucking villain. As long as no one ever tries to paint him as a victim again.

Admittedly, it is a means to an end, but if everything goes well, he might be able to keep his iron fist on crime. Strengthen it, even.

But first, he has to kill the Joker.

Bruce doesn’t get it. He spews some bullshit about how all life is precious and how ‘we’re not killers’, except Jason _is_ a killer. His soul is tainted, and keeping him from the Joker isn’t making it any cleaner.

So Jason bides his time and he puts all the pieces in place for his plan. Black Mask panics and frees the Joker. The Joker betrays him. Jason confronts the Joker and swallows back the bile that rises in his throat, focusing instead on the green starting to tint his vision. They lead Batman on a little chase until finally, Jason gets his showdown.

“Kill him B. It’s the only way this ends.” Jason’s voice is shaking a lot more than he’d like, but he is holding his killer in a chokehold, so it’s understandable.

“Killing is never the only option!” Bruce growls angrily.

“It is with him!” Jason licks his lips, fingers flexing on the trigger. He could end this. Right here, right now. Pull the trigger and make a break for it before the body even drops. But that’s not the _plan._ Bruce has to choose.

“Jason, put the gun down.” So much for names in the field. “We can figure this out together.”

“Together isn’t an option anymore B. Don’t you see? You _replaced_ me. I died in the line of duty, and you moved on like nothing ever happened.”

“ _I mourned you,_ ” Bruce snaps. “There’s a monument to you in the Cave so that I can never forget.”

“So you can never forget your _good soldier,_ ” Jason spits. “That’s not for me, that’s for you and your fucking _guilt._ If you’d really wanted to remember me, there wouldn’t be anymore children in your stupid _crusade_. You’d have taken my death as the warning it was and put Robin to rest. Well now it’s too late. I don’t want your guilt, or your pity, or anything else from you but this. _Kill him._ ”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“If you don’t, I will. And then what are you gonna do B? Lock me up in Arkham? What exactly do you think the staff’s going to do about Jason Todd coming back from the dead as the Red Hood? How long do you think it will take for the press to figure out Batman’s identity? I give it an hour, tops.”

Bruce’s silence is telling.

“This isn’t Scarecrow or Penguin, B. It’s the Joker. Anyone else and I’d get it. I’d still hate you for it, but I’d get it. The Joker though? He’s insane B. Or worse, he isn’t. Either way there’s never gonna be rehabilitation for him. All he’s gonna do is keep killing and keep hurting until someone finds a permanent solution. And hasn’t he earned his fate by now? If not for the thousands he’s killed, then how about for me? I was your _son_ and he took me from you.”

For one shining second, Jason thinks that Bruce might actually do it. That Bruce will kill the Joker and they can somehow get back to being a family again, if only Bruce would just _do it already._ But that’s not what happens.

“ _Don’t you know I want to?_ ” Bruce roars. “Everyday I think about killing him, and everyday I stop myself. I can’t cross that line. Not ever. Not even for him.”

“Fine then! Let _me_ kill him. That way your precious conscience stays clean.” Jason hesitates for just a moment, then whispers, “I really wished this could have ended another way, but I _have_ to kill him. I can’t keep living in a world where he’s alive.” He doesn’t say he’s sorry because he’s not.

Jason’s finger tenses on the trigger and then—

The gun falls from his hand as it flies to his throat instead in a futile effort to stop the blood spraying from the cut in his neck. It takes him a moment to catch up with what happened, and when he does, he would have screamed if he could.

The first major scar on this new body, and it’s from a batarang thrown by his own father.

So much for unconditional love. So much for family, and supporting each other and _partners._ The son of a bitch killed Jason, and yet Bruce would rather slit Jason’s throat than watch the bastard die. 

This isn’t the kind of ‘love’ Jason wants any part of. If it’s even love at all.

At the very least, it lets Jason know exactly how Bruce feels. Jason isn’t worth killing over. His death didn’t change anything in Gotham. Not one damn thing.

Bruce still has a little child soldier at his side to stick in the line of fire as he sees fit and the Joker still lives. The only difference Jason made was a little memorial in the cave to remind Bruce of his failure.

Jason didn’t matter.

Well fuck that. 

He’s done staking his worth on other people. Talia and the League can go straight to hell if they think they can control him, and Bruce can join them if he tries to talk to Jason about his ‘methods’ one more time.

Jason needs to get away from all this bullshit. He can’t take the constant scrutiny of staying in Gotham, even if the city calls to him in a way nothing else from before the Pit has.

He needs space to get angry and start fights, far away from Bruce’s meddlesome ways and all the triggers in this godforsaken city.

He needs to figure out who he is without Robin. Without Bruce. Without the one rule.

And he’s going to raise hell while he does it.

**14\. The Perks of Being a Wallflower - Stephen Chbosky, 1999**

Bruce doesn’t follow him. At least, he has the sense not to get caught following him. Jason’s not stupid enough to think Batman would let a threat as big as him just walk away without being monitered.

By now his picture has probably worked its way onto the Justice League watchlist with a nice and neat paragraph summary. Something vague about the circumstances and heavy on the warnings like:

_Red Hood AKA Jason Todd, formerly Robin: Mentally unstable and possibly psychotic, delusions of being a hero. Well trained, heavily armed, and considered dangerous. Killer and drug lord, but currently free floating. If seen, contact Batman immediately and do not approach._

It sounds like a fucking lost dog sign, even in Jason’s head, but it’s also exactly something Batman would do. Bruce has always viewed the world in black and white. Right and wrong. Him and everyone else. 

That way of thinking has never left room for people like Jason. People who were _made_ into monsters, forced against their will to fill a mold they never wanted, so Jason doesn’t expect Bruce to explain the nuances of his situation or extend help instead of abhorrence.

Bruce doesn’t care about the things that pushed Jason this far _—doesn’t care about the part that’s his fault—_ all he cares about is what Jason has done. Not what was done to him.

Whoever said _it’s not the destination, it’s the journey_ was either high off their ass or bullshitting so hard they probably died of dysentery.

Besides, Jason sniffs some hypocrisy in it all. Wonder Woman has killed people. Yet she’s a founding member of the Justice League, a warrior princess, and a hero that Batman works with all the time.

Yet when Jason does it, he’s insane. A danger to the world and himself with a cell in Arkham just waiting for him to slip up again.

Well if he’s insane, he’d say it was fairly well earned, all things considered. And he can’t exactly go back to the straight and narrow now. Not when he still sees the Joker’s smile every time he closes his eyes. Honestly it’d be enough to drive anyone to murder.

And anyway, his way _works._ Not even Bruce can really argue that. The numbers are in Jason’s favor.

So he can’t stop doing the vigilante thing and he can’t not kill while doing it, but if he kills he can never return to Gotham.

It pains him to think he might never be able to go home, but he forces himself to keep going forward. He’ll keep Gotham in his rearview mirror until one day, just maybe, he might stop looking back at it.

That just leaves him the rest of the world. It’s not such a bad consolation prize.

He’ll have to make money somehow, and with his skills, that equates to mercenary work. It’s not what he intended, but he figures there are worse things.

He’ll vet his targets to make sure they actually deserve a bullet between the eyes before taking jobs, that way he’s basically just getting paid to do what he would have done anyway.

And it works. For a while. But for the first time in his life, he doesn’t really have a goal. He’s not moving towards anything. He’s just trying to keep himself alive.

It doesn’t help that everytime he pauses or closes his eyes, it all comes rushing back. The burn of the Pit. The stench of blood choking him. The tick of the bomb as the realization that he wasn’t going to make it settled in. 

In every silence, he can hear the Joker’s laugh.

It’s getting harder and harder to pull him out of the spirals. Harder to remind himself that the Joker haunting his nightmares isn’t real and can’t actually hurt him. Harder to stop himself from thinking about Alfred and Bruce and Replacement and everything he’s never going to get back.

He’s never going to sleep in his own bed again. Never going to wear the red, yellow, and green. Never going to be able to sleep the night through or get undressed in front of another person or curl up by the fire with a good book. His happy middle is so far past gone, he wouldn’t be able to find it with a telescope.

Those thoughts settle in his heart like lead weights and start dragging.

At first he just keeps pushing. Didn’t sleep because he couldn’t shut off the part of his brain that wanted to relive every moment of his life in an effort to determine where it all went wrong? More coffee. Can’t stay still because the bloodlust is roaring through his veins? Go pick up another job. Saw the barista at the local coffee shop watching him a little too long and convinced they’re a spy? Move to the next city.

He wouldn’t call it healthy, but it’s functional.

He starts taking risks.

Granted, he was never a ‘play it safe’ kind of fighter, but now they’re getting bigger. He’s taking jobs that are edging out of his skill range. Picking fights he’s not sure he can finish. Taking hits he could have avoided. Completing his missions at any cost.

He hasn’t smiled in months and he hasn’t laughed in longer. He’s not sure he still knows how to or if the sound would choke him. (All laughter sounds sinister to him now anyway, something to be monitored and possibly terminated.)

He wonders if it’s a physical effect of the Pit, or just an inevitable symptom of his psychological trauma.

People just aren't meant to come back from the dead. Not whole at least. Maybe that’s Jason’s problem. He died an innocent, but he came back guilty. Frankenstein’s monster risen again.

Death is sacred, and even if it wasn’t his choice, Jason has defiled it. His very existence on this earth is a manmade abomination.

He should have stayed dead.

He thinks a few times about just correcting this cosmic mistake, making it easier on everyone. No one would miss him. Not really. He’s already dead to the only family he’s ever had, and there just isn’t anyone else.

He gets as far as cocking the gun before the anger kicks in again.

If he’s going down, he’s sure as hell going down fighting.

So he focuses on his mission instead of the growing numbness that oozes from the fracture in his chest.

And then he gets blown up (again) and meets Princess Koriand’r.

She’s speaks of humans like they’re amusing animals in a petting zoo and views Earth as a primitive playpen, and yet she’s somehow the most grounded person Jason’s met in a long time.

It’s weird, hanging out on a deserted island with Dick’s ex, but as Kori points out, their separate connections to a man who neither of them have seen in ages has no bearing on the here and now.

In fact, Kori views many things in that way. She talks of her past not like she’s hiding it, but like she genuinely does not care. It is then, and this is now. She has accepted the awful things that have happened to her, and she has moved past them.

Jason… could probably learn a thing or two from her actually.

She tells him that his anger will consume him and that by giving so much credit to how others view him he’s giving away his ability to be self-defining.

She stays with him as he recuperates and listens when he speaks about his past. She doesn’t waste time with pointless pity, simply accepts him as he is and acknowledges that he is a product of his past, but not trapped by it.

He knows that their reprieve cannot last forever, but he doesn’t want to let go of the calmness and clarity Kori inspires in him, so very different from the numbness he has been carrying around.

But when he sees the newspaper, he can’t ignore it.

Roy Harper is unstable in many meanings of the word. He’s chatty and dressed like he’s never seen a shower in his life, but his bow hand is still steady, and that has to count for something.

Jason hasn’t exactly been in the loop for hero news, but he knows Roy’s story, and he knows that Roy is just as much of an outcast as he is.

Actually, they have a lot in common. Street rats… shitty mentors… falling off the deep end… being cast out instead of helped... 

It’s more than enough for Jason to stop and think twice about the archer.

He thinks that Roy might actually get it. Roy’s an addict (He’s been clean for a long time and Jason trusts him, but he also knows better than anyone that being an addict is something that follows you around, even when you’re not using.) and it got him disowned.

Jason knows it’s not a perfect comparison, but he feels a kinship for it anyway.

It’s a shockingly stable foundation for a friendship of sorts. Jason has never expected anything of Roy but his best, and Roy appreciates Jason as is, no ifs, buts, or ultimatums to it. It’s the kind of acceptance they both desperately needed from the people they loved, but never got.

So the three of them form a—dare Jason even say it?—team. Red Hood and the Outlaws. It’s catchy. Good band name. He’d ask Kori to sing, but he likes his testicles where they are.

Having people to rely on again is good for Jason, not that he’ll ever admit that aloud. They ground him in reality and remind him that he can still do some good in the world. That this life is worth living, even if he doesn’t like the circumstances under which he got it.

They watch his back without pushing him too hard or invading his privacy like certain other ‘team members’ Jason has had before.

And besides all of those slightly more logical reasons, being with them just _feels_ right. They’re straight forward and unapologetically themselves, for better or worse. Jason has learned to cherish that kind of authenticity.

The Outlaws become Jason’s sanctuary in a weird twisted kind of way. The world generally hates them, so they band together. They don’t have families, so they make their own.

Having people to protect like that—people who want to protect _him_ —makes Jason feel human again. Like maybe he’s not the monster Bruce made him out to be. Maybe he can be more than a cautionary tale and a name that shall not be spoken.

He’s still broken, fractured right down the middle in a way that can’t be undone. But, Kintsugi, right? Just because he can’t go back to the way he was, doesn’t mean he can’t be whole again.

He knows he’s not completely there yet, but for the first time since he clawed his way out that godforsaken coffin, he knows that one day he will be.

Deep in Jason’s chest, the flame that hasn’t burnt in so long reignites, even brighter than before.

**15\. Don Quixote - Miguel de Cervantes, 1605**

Jason still loves books. It's one of the few things about him that survived the Pit completely intact.

Well, maybe not at first. The initial blinding rage and subsequent downward spiral didn’t leave a lot of room for leisurely reading, but now it takes up all his spare time. (That and cleaning his _many_ guns, of course.)

Recently he’s found himself inexplicably drawn to an odd little book written 400 or so years ago. Don Quixote.

The protagonist sees himself as a knight in shining armor, straight from the round table. But the world he’s living in doesn’t have knights anymore. Maybe it never really did. So instead of being a hero, he’s a fool.

Something about that sings to Jason. Cries out to him.

Don Quixote believed himself a hero. Believed it so strongly, it warped his perception of reality. And yet, the other characters in the book only seem to suffer at his hand. They would have been better off without the intervention of a self proclaimed ‘hero’.

So what does that make him? A fool? A villain? Or just delusional?

Jason gets it. He gets the urge to dress up like a hero and pretend that’s all it takes. He gets the itch for something more, some great adventure that can drive a person to horrific lengths. But most of all, Jason gets how the line between perception and reality can blur and waver until you don’t know where it is.

When he was young, he thought himself the hero. When he died, he knew he was the fool. And when he returned, he was made to be the villain.

None of those things ever fit Jason quite right because they didn’t really hold any meaning beyond the subjective. They were two dimensional roles. Titles meant for characters, not people. 

The world has always been too black and white to contain the grey explosion of Jason Todd. At least now he knows why.

Jason wasn’t meant to be a 2-D character, the fire inside him burns too bright, and no amount of philosophical acrobatics with shove him into just one of those categories.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a place in the story. In fact, he has the most important role of all: he’s the author.

The author has complete control of their own narrative. They decide when they are good or bad, foolish or intelligent. Maybe Jason hasn’t always had quite that level of control over the shit show that is his life, but he does control who he will be in the face of that storm.

His choice. No one else’s.

Which means he is, and always will be, only as heroic as his choices, and as villainous as his actions.

It’s his story. Batman’s just living in it.

He likes to think Don Quixote (or at least his author) would have approved of Jason’s more than a little meta life philosophy.

With this new and improved mode of thinking, he starts to see the choices as they happen. Some are big, but most—nearly all—are small.

Said choices lead him on adventures the likes of which Don Quixote could only dream of:

He chooses to protect the innocent whenever he can, and to strengthen the bonds he’s made instead of severing them. (Although to be honest, Roy and Kori would have had his ass if he hadn’t made that choice so he’s not sure how much it counts as being of his own volition. God knows he fucked up the good thing they had going more times than he can count, but Roy and Kori always managed to pull him back in.) He chooses not to kill Bruce when he takes Jason to the site of his death without warning in an effort to jog some memories.

( _He was grieving,_ Jason tells himself. _He was grieving he was grieving he was grieving._ Over and over like a mantra of excuses that’s slowly losing its meaning.)

And then there are the choices that are so small they shouldn’t be worth mentioning except they are, because they are perhaps the most important.

Like sitting down with his replacement for waffles instead of noping out of there like he’d planned.

It’s a… _strange_ experience to say the least. Mostly because he would have expected the nerfherder (Yeah he knows things other than classic lit. He’s a zombie not _old._ ) to hate his guts after the whole murderous rage thing, but it’s Replacement who asks _him_ to stay. Ain’t that somethin’?

He ends up learning that Tim—because Replacement does actually have a name, not that Jason plans on using it—is sardonic and too mature for his years. That he comes from money, but has the same starving, distrustful look in his eye that all street kids do anyway.

The kid’s still a stick who perpetually looks like he skipped a few meals, but he’s quick as a whip and he’s got as many League dealings as Jason. There’s anger under the surface, but it’s so repressed, even Jason’s perpetual awarness of fellow fuck ups almost misses it. Plus the kid’s got computer skills that could rival Babs’.

Actually, he’s got a little bit of all of them in him. It freaks Jason out a bit to hear his own drawing sarcasm and dark humor thrown right back at him with the comfort of someone who’s been using it for years.

Jason’s not sure how he ever hated this kid.

Well, that’s a lie. Jason knows exactly why he hated this kid, except now he knows that it wasn’t Tim’s fault. He knows that Bruce—as always—was the one he was really mad at and Tim was more of a convenient punching bag.

To be fair to both of them, Jason had a habit of viewing _everyone_ as a convenient punching bag back in those days.

Still. The anger might be gone, but in its wake is a sadness that’s buried so deep Jason can only guess it’s always been there.

He can’t help but look at Tim, and—despite his replacement’s competence—think, _he’s just a kid._

‘Robin’ is a curse that brings pain and death upon its holder without giving anything back except empty promises, paranoia, and a barrel full of unhealthy coping mechanisms. Tim didn’t deserve to have that thrust on him just because Jason screwed up.

And isn’t that an ironic twist for you? Jason feels guilty about his replacement. It’s ridiculous.

Except how can he not feel guilty when he looks at Tim?

Bruce has been pulling child soldiers into his Mission basically since its conception, and yet he still hasn’t realized the effect he’s actually had on his Robins. He’s blind to the desperate and needy parts of them that latch onto Bruce’s jealously guarded approval, seeking it out at any cost.

Jason’s come to terms with that part of his past, accepted it and moved on. Bruce’s approval has plummeted so low on his list of priorities, it could be the new world wide diving champion.

But Tim… Tim’s still in the thick of it.

Jason’s always prided himself on being able to read people, and although Tim is harder to read than most, there are two words that stand out to Jason clear as day: _love me._ He wonders what Bruce did to fuck this one up, or if he was always like this. Jason’s not sure which is worse.

So he sits there. Listens to the kid babble about Star Trek and detective work intermixed with casually dropped details about his life. Almost as if he’s trying to tell Jason the story in puzzle pieces because he’s scared Jason might realize this isn’t just a casual hang, but a full on bonding session and run.

It’s a reasonable concern, and Jason can’t say his feet haven’t started twitching a few times—particularly when the kid gets too close to Bat territory—but he’s not leaving yet.

He doesn’t exactly plan on singing kum ba yah and getting the band back together anytime soon, but maybe this is where he’ll start. Another semi-estranged Robin who fell just a little to the dark side. (They aren’t comparable situations really, but when Tim looks him in the eye, Jason knows he _gets_ it like Goldie and the old man never will.)

Babybird was offering him another chance when he asked Jason to stay. He was offering forgiveness and family and all those scary f-words Jason’s been dodging for the past few years.

Jason knows enough now not to turn away from that.

Even as he sits there, he can’t help but feel like he’s on a precipice. Like this is the start of another adventure that might just finally lead him home if he sticks it out long enough.

Not to Bruce or the Manor because they won’t ever be his anything again, but to _Gotham._ The city that owned his soul long before he tried to sell it.

And if that just so happens to come with a few emotionally gutting but ultimately cathartic conversations, he can roll with that. Every journey has its obstacles.

Maybe, no promises, he’ll even try to patch things up with Goldie. He and Dick weren’t ever really friends, but they could have been. They still can be. Ex-Robins have to stick together, right? Even the annoyingly perfect ones.

Jason smiles into his coffee, and pretends it’s because of Tim’s story and not his own thoughts. One day, this coffee will be earl grey tea and he’ll be sipping it with Alfie and a good book.

One day. But in the immortal words of Aragorn, _today is not that day._

And that’s okay.

**Author's Note:**

> So you may have noticed this is part of a series and that’s because I’m making one of these (hopefully) for each of the Robins. I think (hopefully) the next one will be about Tim and it’ll be out in about a month? It’s hard to say because the amount of research/editing/writing that goes into these might not be the same for different characters depending on my interest/available time.
> 
> So please subscribe to the series if you liked this one and are interested in more Robin stories!
> 
> Anyway, please leave a comment if you liked it/loved it/have questions/just wanna scream at me/have constructive criticism. Hearing from readers gives me life and makes writing 100000% easier. Even if I don’t respond, I read every single comment and love you for leaving them!


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